


A Sunlit Garden

by Luka z Rivii (wayward_dream)



Series: Heart Day 2020 Prompts [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Dark Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Possessive Reader, soft times in the bath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23441785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayward_dream/pseuds/Luka%20z%20Rivii
Summary: Title is inspired from a quote by Oscar Wilde: “Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead”. So you see, it’s a metaphor garden but there will be no actual gardens.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Series: Heart Day 2020 Prompts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686376
Comments: 1
Kudos: 76





	A Sunlit Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Title is inspired from a quote by Oscar Wilde: “Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead”. So you see, it’s a metaphor garden but there will be no actual gardens.

“Geralt, you should go see be the healer,” you scolded him. But you didn’t hesitate to open your door wide, to slip under his arm and press against his side to offer what support you could.

He was filthy and pale, eyes black as coal and skin webbed with dark veins. But you were most concerned about the sluggishly bleeding gash on his forehead.

“Fuck the healer,” he grunted. “Needed you, not them.”

“Geralt you’re bleeding and can barely stand,” you groused as you helped him hobble into your home.

“I’ll heal.”

“Not if I kill you for scaring me like this,” you growled. His eyes met yours and you touched his cheek, slid your fingers along his skin and worried at how cold he was to the touch. He shut his eyes, leaning into the caress, and you sighed shakily. “When I’d heard you’d gone after the bruxa by yourself, I was terrified you weren’t going to come back to me.” You closed your eyes, leaning your forehead against his.

Geralt reached out, drew you into his arms; you rested your head on his chest, clutched his shirt in your fists as though to keep him here, never let him stray from you again. You felt him bury his face into your hair, felt his breath tickling by your ear. “Nothing could keep me from you, dove,” he murmured. “No force on heaven nor earth, or any realm beyond nor in between.” He touched icy lips to your jaw and you shivered, wiping your eyes as you pulled back to look up at him.

“Let’s get you in a bath,” you murmured. He hummed and allowed you to tug him down the hall to your washroom. He sat on a stool while you puttered about, getting water to fill the tub with, making sure it was hot enough for him and taking the oils that he preferred, the ones that soothed all his muscles and helped him relax. When you were finally satisfied, you returned to him.

He was quiet, as you helped him undo the straps of his armor and pulled his clothes off with care – you could tell by the stiffness of his muscles that he was still in pain. You helped him out of his undershirt and breeches, and he assisted when he could but mostly he was pliant to your gentle touch.

He slid into the bath with a hiss as the steaming water met his chilled skin, but he sank down with a deep sigh of pleasure. You squeezed his shoulder and moved to go fetch a washcloth. His hand shot out to seize your wrist, fast as a viper but his grip was gentle, a request. You met his eyes and pulled his hand to your face, kissed the side of it gently.

“I’ll be right back,” you whispered. “Let me get a wash cloth so I can get you clean.”

“Hm. Don’t make me wait long,” Geralt hummed, releasing you. You fetched a washcloth, and divested yourself of your own clothes in your room before shyly going back to the washroom, holding the cloth to your chest nervously.

Geralt had his head back and was lounging, but when he heard you enter he stirred, watched you with slitted dark eyes. You bit your lip and his nostrils flared, his voice low and velvety as he drank in the sight of you. “Aren’t you a vision. Come and join me.”

Biting your lip, you approached and stepped into the tub. Geralt’s set his hands on your calves, slid up your thighs to hold your hips. Gooseflesh broke out in the wake of his touch and he chuckled darkly, guiding you down to sit astride his thighs. You blushed and he kissed you, once – it was chaste, but the bitter taste of the potion he’d consumed lingered on his lips and he was still icy to the touch. It worried you, but it was still Geralt, kissing you, so naturally you responded, parting your lips and sighing his name quietly.

Geralt pulled back with a pleased smirk gracing his sharp features. You kissed him once on the cheek before dipping the cloth in the bath water, wringing it out and beginning to gently dab away the dirt and blood that clung stubbornly to his skin. The clear water slowly darkened and became murky, but something tight and aching in your chest unfurled when he was clean and the bruises and cuts didn’t look so bad.

The two of you were quiet as you carefully washed the cut on his forehead, and then the scraped impression of teeth lingering at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Your touch was light and fleeting, but the thought that that bruxa had left such a mark on Geralt, that he might bear lasting scars from the encounter, left you angry and hurting; how dare it try to lay a claim on what was _yours?_ You stewed quietly, wanting to let Geralt rest in peace as his body worked so hard to recover, carefully cleaning away any filth and wringing the cloth out again.

Geralt hummed quietly, catching your chin in his fingers and tilting it up so you met his gaze. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” you murmured, smoothing the warm cloth across his cool forehead.

“I can smell your anger, dove. Tell me what you’re thinking,” he coaxed, his free hand trailing light fingers up and down your spine coaxingly. You shivered and sighed quietly.

“No use trying to hide anything from your damned witcher senses,” you grumbled. “I hate that that bruxa left a mark on you, that you might bear scars from that encounter,” you admitted quietly to Geralt.

Geralt went still, head tipped slightly to one side. You looked away, embarrassed. “It’s a hazard of the job,” he finally said in an odd voice.

“That doesn’t mean I like when others get to leave scars and marks on what’s mine,” you huffed, startling a chuckle out of him.

“Yours, am I?” he teased, trailing his knuckles lightly over your cheek. You nuzzled his hand.

“Of course. Now, your turn: tell me why you thought my reaction was strange.” You kissed his hand and he fixed hungry black eyes on you.

“You really aren’t scared of me, when I’m….?” He gestured vaguely at himself, indicating his face, seeming perplexed, perhaps a bit awed. You shook your head.

“I’ve no reason to be afraid. You would never harm me.”

“You truly are a rare creature.” A feral grin started to pull at his lips as his arms encircled you, drawing you in close. “I’m keeping you.”

You blushed and whacked his chest lightly. “Shut up, Geralt.”

“Never.” He pulled you against him, buried his face in your neck and breathed in deep with his lips set where he could feel your pulse fluttering under your skin. “You’re mine, and I’m keeping you.” He nipped lightly, then immediately soothed with a kiss, arms squeezing you tighter.

“G-Geralt–” you gasped his name softly, squirming on his lap.

He hummed, lifted his face to slide his cheek against yours before resting your foreheads together. “I just thought you should know,” he told you a bit smugly, “you’re stuck with me now.”

Heart fluttering, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, smiled softly as you gazed into his night-velvet eyes. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now shut up and let me finish taking care of you.”

“Hm, if you insist.” And he did, albeit while distracting you with light kisses and caresses. You sighed fondly and did your best to care for your witcher.

 _Your witcher._ He’d said it himself: you were his, and that made him yours as well. The thought soothed the anger stirred by seeing him injured, sent a quiet happy thrill pulsing through you. Geralt hummed quietly in approval, brushed lips that were slowly starting to warm against the shell of your ear. “You smell happy,” he told you.

You turned your head, kissed his cheek lightly and smiled against his skin. “I suppose I am.”


End file.
